


Beauty in the Memory

by Esteliel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Imprisonment, Isengard Fic, LOTRO, M/M, MMORPG, Masturbation, Sleep Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:49:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imprisoned in the caves below Isengard, Eluivor tries to cling to the one good thing left to him - his friend Vereyar, who seems to have already given up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beauty in the Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Vereyar is not mine, though Eluivor is.  
> This is definitely not what their canon adventure in the Isengard Depths is like. Sometimes I feel bad for how I keep continueing to force them into all sorts of awkward situations in fic, especially since I like their relationship in canon so much and the fact that there is nothing sexual in their friendship, but I guess that is exactly the reason why these AUs are so much fun to write.  
> So, I am sorry I keep abusing Vereyar, but I am grateful I get to play with him. \o/

Eluivor could not sleep. His body was exhausted to the point that several times that day he had thought that he might faint. Blackness had dimmed the edges of his vision as his aching body carried heavy kegs of metal scraps for their orcish overseers, but now that they had a precious few hours to rest, his mind seemed as bruised and raw as his body. When he closed his eyes, he still heard screams. His own screams. He remembered how he had in the end screamed and pleaded for mercy as they hurt him. How he had crawled through the kitchen without protest to wipe up the slops after days of starvation, of how he had almost wept with gratitude at the disgusting mix of rotten fruit and spoiled meat poured into his bowl.

 _I am a coward_ , he thought wearily, though he was too exhausted to even feel disgust at his own actions. He was numb, without hope or courage. Maybe they would stay here forever - or at least until they died. And perhaps death would be preferable than to continue this way, bowing and scraping and cowering at the feet of orcs until the humiliation he had felt at first was nothing more than an old companion, like the pangs of hunger and the bleeding whip marks on his back.

He turned, barely suppressing a groan at the way his bruised hip bones ground against the cruel stone he was resting on. Vereyar was asleep, and he did not want to wake him He never knew whether Vereyar was resting or just silently staring at the ground. The same way he never knew just what had happened to Vereyar. What could have possibly turned the strong, proud warrior he had admired since their first meeting into this silent, hollow ghost? It was as if one day, Vereyar had simply turned into the hard granite they were resting on. No words. No emotions. Just stony, unmoving silence.

If even Vereyar had lost hope - then what hope was left for him? But if he was sleeping, then not all was lost. If Vereyar could find sleep while Eluivor's own aching body and restless mind kept him wide awake, then it meant that there was strength left in Vereyar's body. 

Wearily, he allowed his eyes to trace the features he had come to know so well. Vereyar looked gaunt. There was dust in his hair and dirt on his chin. His skin seemed thin as paper, the shadows beneath his eyes as dark as the bruises on his limbs. But even so, he was familiar, the only thing of comfort Eluivor had in this forgotten place, and so his eyes lingered on his dry lips, on the shadow of his lashes against the pale skin, the dull, ashen gleam of his hair that had once shone beneath the moon. Even in this desolate place of despair, there was beauty in the memory of riding by his side. And he remembered still what Vereyar had said. “You are with me. Do not be afraid.”

He clung to that memory for comfort, even though he knew that Vereyar would not be able to help him the next time an overseer dragged him away to whip him until he wept. He closed his eyes for a moment to hide his shame, although Vereyar was asleep and would not see. But Vereyar had known. Vereyar had known from the beginning that this would happen, and that Eluivor would not be strong enough to withstand the torture as he had so proudly claimed. Shame churned in his stomach. Maybe it was better that Vereyar had given up. Maybe he had been too preoccupied with whatever terrors of his own he had faced to hear Eluivor's desperate cries and pleas. But even if Vereyar did not know of his shame, Eluivor remembered. Every single moment, he remembered; every single moment, he knew that he should not be so craven to cling to this life when the price he paid for it was his honour, his pride, everything that had once made him the man he had been.

Now neither his king nor his prince would recognize him. He would never hold his wife again and feel pride in his strength and her loveliness. How could she love a man who had pleaded with orcs for mercy until his voice gave out and who cried at their feet until there were no tears left?

Almost, he wept again, but that too took strength, and there was so precious little left. Soon, far too soon, he would wake on the hard ground and carry heavy kegs until his arms and shoulders were tense with fiery pain even in sleep. He could not waste these precious, rare hours of respite. 

Almost without thought, his aching, reddened hand slid down to rest between his legs, more for comfort than any real need. The touch was familiar, and there was a simple comfort in that, the warmth and weight of his hand. The weariness proved nearly too much, but his hand remembered what to do, and although at first his strokes were almost mechanical, it felt good enough that his tense, tortured muscles relaxed after a moment. 

Vereyar still had not moved, and Eluivor did not think he would. He was like a statue who would not move or feel or talk. He had not moved for as many nights as Eluivor could remember. Maybe he never had. Maybe he was a statue in truth, and all he remembered of their life before Isengard had been a lie, a dream to torment him with things that could not be true.

Had Vereyar truly once endangered his own life to save his? Dimly, he remembered the terrible cold of a night in the snow, and Vereyar's body hot and hard against his as he clung to him. He remembered little of the night, but he remembered how safe he had felt, and how grateful, and how Vereyar had looked when he finally rose from their blankets in the morning, all hard, rippling muscle, overwhelming in his virility, the warrior Eluivor had always longed to be.

Where was that warrior now, where the iron muscle that would fight their way out of here? Eluivor reached out, his fingertips brushing Vereyar's stomach. His body was still hard, but he had grown gaunt, as starved as Eluivor. In the dim light of the cave, he could see the shadows his hip bones left on his skin, stark black pools that cut across the pale skin like blades. He traced them carefully, then followed them where they vanished. Vereyar's skin was warm and dry, and for a moment he did not even question what he was doing when his fingers sought out Vereyar's soft length, curling around him maybe out of curiosity, or in a desperate move to wake him from his despair – or maybe simply because he was weary and lonely and afraid, because there was nothing left in these caves for him but Vereyar, and there was a small, familiar pleasure in his touch that almost reminded him of what life before these caves and the whips and despair had been like.

He had grown hard in his hand, and slowly, so was Vereyar. A part of Eluivor still dimly remembered that this was wrong, but the part of him that was starved for comfort and a friendly touch could not let go of Vereyar, not when he felt so warm, so alive. He was no statue now that left Eluivor alone in his pain and despair. He was hot and hard in his hand, and there was a slight flush on his marble skin, his nostrils flaring slightly, his brow gleaming with a sheen of sweat. 

His own breath came faster as he watched Vereyar, thinking of his wife on their bed, naked and lovely in the moonlight, thinking of how they'd make another child when he returned. Then Vereyar's lips parted slightly, his breathing growing more laboured. Eluivor watched in helpless fascination, his own lips parting with an emotion he had almost forgotten as he watched the tip of Vereyar's tongue moisten his cracked lips. A shudder ran through him as Vereyar took a deep breath, releasing it with what was almost a moan. They were so close that he could almost feel Vereyar's breath against his skin, and for a moment, the cave vanished, and he remembered waking against Vereyar's strong body on Caradhras, remembered the scent of him, sweat and leather and the oil he used to clean his armour. 

He bit his lip, careful to keep silent as pleasure washed through him like a wave of heat, the warmth of Vereyar's own seed wet against his fingers. Flushed and out of breath, he curled up on his side after a moment, licking it from his fingers with shamed despair before the heat in his belly was once more smothered by the bleakness of captivity. He didn't even know why he had done it. But Vereyar had been warm, was that not reason enough? Vereyar hadn't talked for days, and sometimes Eluivor feared that he was going insane, that he had been a slave for years instead of weeks, that Vereyar had never been anything but this cold, unmovable stone. Now, despite the sick shame at what he had done, with his friend's seed bitter on his tongue, he remembered the heat of his flesh. He was not alone. Was that reason enough for what he had done? 

He looked at Vereyar. He was still asleep, though he looked more peaceful now. Did he imagine that?

Maybe he did. Maybe nothing had changed. But for this night at least, there was the memory of that fleeting, brief pleasure to cling to, and even though it brought shame, too, it was a respite from the shame his slavery brought.


End file.
